


Tomorrow

by Atanih88



Series: Superbat Week 2019 [4]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Aftermath, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Post-First Time, Rough Sex, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 19:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20020087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: Written forsuperbatweekDay 4’s prompts 'angry sex' and 'sharing a bed'.





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. Not happy with this one as it was rushed and written on a tired brain, but hope you still enjoy.

When Bruce closes the door of the en suite behind him, he's a surprised to find Clark still in the room. 

Clark's sitting on the bed, head in his hands in the soft light of the bedside table. He glances up at Bruce at the sound of the door shutting. His eyes linger on Bruce's face for a second before dropping and taking in all the expanse of skin on display.

Most of the bruises aren't showing yet, nothing apart from the red marks in the shape of Clark's fingers on Bruce's right shoulder and left wrist. The rest, Bruce knows, will be there tomorrow. He can already feel the map of bruises just waiting to manifest themselves in blues and purples. The ache goes beyond the skin.

Bruce can still feel the crush of Clark's arm banded tight around his stomach. Can still feel the phantom pressure of Clark's hands pinning him to the bed by his shoulder and wrist, how Clark's fingers had curled too tight, had made Bruce wonder if he'd have to make up a lie to Alfred to explain why he'd returned home with a crushed shoulder and wrist.

Then there are the aches pressed deep into the muscles of Bruce's thighs. He'd lost count of the amount of time he'd spent under Clark, legs splayed wide around the sharp jut of Clark's hips.

He doesn't know how many times Clark came inside him.

Bruce adjusts the towel around his hips and walks to the bed, not one step betraying the deep-seated soreness. He'd checked in the shower, head under the jet of the hot water, his own rough fingers almost too much as he'd reached behind himself to lightly feel his hole, still wet from Clark. 

Soft and swollen, yes. Torn? Bruce didn't think so.

'Still here,' Bruce says, 'I'm surprised. I'm not as young as I used to be. So if you're hoping for another round I'm afraid I'm done for the night.'

'Don't.' Clark drops his gaze and grips his hands together tightly. 

He's dragged his jeans back on but hasn't done them up. They gape open enough to give Bruce a glimpse of coarse pubic hair. Clark hasn't tugged his shirt back on either. 

The thing is, aside from Clark's hair, which is a mess, there's not much to show that Clark wasn't the only one participating in the kind of sex that by all accounts should've destroyed the bed. 

There's nothing on him to account for how Bruce had fisted his hair, for how Bruce had locked a hand around Clark's jaw while goading him through gritted teeth. 

His lips though—Clark's lips—are the only part of him that look abused. 

Bruce hadn't been gentle with his teeth.

They hadn't kissed. 

Nothing about it had been nice. Their sex had bordered on violence.

'I'm sorry, Bruce,' Clark says. 'I shouldn't have—I don't know what happened.'

Bruce rounds the bed and yanks down the luxurious spread that has been creased and stained beyond repair. 'It's called fucking, Clark.' He doesn't bother to close the curtains on the glittering view of Metropolis and opens the balcony door instead.

Cool air fills the room and eases the smell of sex and sweat.

'Bruce.'

'Relax. Tensions were high. Despite what people believe, I know you're not perfect, Clark. Besides, you weren't the only one who lost it.' Bruce stares at the folded back covers and thinks if it's worth the discomfort of putting on some pants. 'We all make mistakes.'

The frustrated sound Clark makes is loud in the room and Bruce looks up, startled when Clark stands and turns to face him. Clark's is running agitated hands through his hair.

'That's not—that’s not how I wanted it to happen.' 

Bruce blinks, not comprehending. 'Excuse me?'

'And I know I should've listened, that I shouldn't have broken formation but you know me, you know that I can't just let—' Clark shakes his head, the motion vicious as if he's cutting himself off.

When he meets Bruce's gaze it's head on. His shoulders are squared and his lips pressed into a tight determined line.

'But even though I don't like how it happened—that we didn't even have time to think about it, I'm glad that it did. And I want to do it again. Differently. In every way that you'll let me.'

Bruce takes a moment to process all that, tries to separate everything Clark has just said from Clark himself, standing in Bruce's hotel room looking self righteous and debauched all at once. Now that Clark is standing, Bruce can see the half hard bulge straining against Clark's jeans that hasn't quite gone away all night. 

'You're saying this wasn't a fluke.'

All of a sudden, Clark looks tired. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs as he looks away. 'No, Bruce. This wasn't a fluke. And you know it.' Clark smiles then but it looks wrong with its mocking edge. 'How long have you known?'

Fuck. Bruce is too tired for this conversation and that last session had ended with him on his knees. He just wants to get in the bed and face plant into the pillow. 

In the far off distance, the sky is beginning to change, to lighten.

'I'm tired,' he says. 'I want to sleep. I'm not discussing this now.'

Bruce expects that to get Clark's back up, expects Clark's expression to twist into indignant and pissed off and for him to scoop up his clothes and fly out the window, or slam out of the hotel room—whichever Clark is in the mood for.

Instead Bruce stares, at a loss, as Clark relaxes and nods. 

'Okay. We can talk about it tomorrow,' Clark arch's an eyebrow at him, 'oh, and Bruce? I'm staying.'

Bruce tilts his head back enough to look down his nose at Clark. 'Son—'

Clark waves it away. 'Save it. Just—get in bed. Tomorrow. And don't even try to sneak off. Not unless you want me barging in on whatever you're doing.' 

Before Bruce can reply Clark's getting out of his jeans and tossing them over to the armchair closest to the window. His cock is still plump with at half-mast but Clark doesn't do anything other than run an absent hand over the length and tug the sheets back on the other side of the bed.

So much for the sweet country boy from Kansas. Little shit.

'Bruce,' Clark curls a hand around Bruce's wrist. Gentle this time. He tugs and looks up at Bruce from messy strands that have fallen onto his face. 

God, Clark's mouth is perfect.

'Get in,' Clark says.

Despite the night they've had, despite the yelling and the biting and the vicious fucking, Bruce finds himself doing as he's told. He loosens the towel, lets it drop at his feet before climbing into bed, slower than Clark as the soreness deep inside forces him to be careful and shifting onto his hip instead of sitting down properly.

He's not even settled before Clark is reaching to the lamp on the bedside table and plunging the room into light shadows. Clark still hasn't let go of Bruce's wrist and as he settles down, he drags Bruce down with him.

Clark slides a hand over Bruce's nape and sifts his fingers through the hair he finds there.

In the dark, Clark's eyes glitter black. 

'Goodnight, Bruce.'

Bruce has no words, can only watch Clark back until Clark closes his eyes.

Bruce is stiff at first, unused to this and unprepared for it. The weight of Clark's hand stays on him, holding him in place.

Tomorrow.

They can finish this tomorrow.

And eventually, Bruce drifts off.


End file.
